


A Silent Night

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Holidays, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 16:30:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13239660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: She hates this fucking day.Vera Bennett loathes Christmas.





	A Silent Night

**Author's Note:**

> Given Vera's scarred history with her birthday, something tells me that she wouldn't quite enjoy the holidays either... But that's my personal perception. The holidays can be tough to many and I extend my solidarity to you all. May the new year treat you kindly. x

A hot shower washes away the filth of the day. Vera has no desire to soak in this Christmas' Code Blue. With her hair sopping wet, she pulls it back. Lets it air dry. Gently, she envelops herself in a ratty, old towel that's been washed a thousand times.

Steam obscures the bathroom mirror. She streaks the glass with a swipe of her hand. Sad eyes stare back. Her reflection shows a pathetic woman in a vacant home, lost and alone. Through clenched teeth, she sucks in the humidity. She closes her eyes to seal off her vision, but she's haunted by a vicious ghost.

 _If only you put more care into your appearance, maybe then someone would find you marginally attractive._ In her head, Mum yammers on. No one wants you, Vera. _You'll be alone for every birthday, every Christmas, because you're pathetic._

“Enough,” she tells herself. “Enough.”

Tilting her head back, her gaze cuts into the bright lights that judge like some kind of God above. The heels of her palm dig into her swollen eyelids. In reverse, she counts down from ten to calm herself down. Dewy droplets cling to her jawline and slither down her throat.

She hates this fucking day.

Vera Bennett loathes Christmas.

Ever since she was a child, she recalls the agony of it. Mum’s taunting. The coal in her stocking. The stifling emptiness beneath the tree, but more often than not – no tree at all. For Vera, the holidays are never easy.

Quietly, she throws on a loose fitting t-shirt and a pair of flannels. She slips her bare feet into a pair of worn slippers. The beige soles have started to thin. She intends on skipping the Last Supper (again), pouring herself a full glass of white, and then checking under the bed _before_ slipping into the embrace of her sheets.

Vera gets through the first task impeccably and the second act half-way through until her buzzer sounds off like a bloody alarm. Tiredly, she sets down her glass. It chimes. Beckons for her like a liquefied siren.

She looks to the clock on the wall. The hand ticks down.

Ten minutes to midnight.

Joan Ferguson is impeccable with her timing. In her hand, she brandishes a bottle of red. A vintage Shiraz. A meticulous planner sets this (whatever it may be) in motion.

Tonight's scorching, summer heat threatens to blister. Her pale face glistens in retaliation. She wears the vestige of her uniform, the buttons unfastened to reveal that she, too, is _vulnerable_ – for Vera's sake. Still, there is a grace to the Governor, far removed from these teal walls.

“Joan.”

“Vera.”

_Let me in._

Bleary eyes venture from the bottle to the hand that feeds and at last, to the stern face of her superior. Here, in the moonlight, she swears that her obsidian stare softens. If only for a moment.

“Merry Christ-”

“Ah,” Vera cuts her off sharply by flicking her hand out to warrant a stop. “Can we cut the holiday out? I just want to enjoy your company.”

Joan runs her tongue over her teeth. There's a telltale twitch in her cheek. The electric pulse causes her lips to follow sweet. Somehow, she manages a smile.

Vera is the last thread in her Machiavellian scheme. She won't lose her, too.

“Of course, I _understand_ ,” the Governor drawls, her voice dripping like honey.

Christmases with Ivan Ferguson chilled to the bone. Russia's frost lingers in her marrow.

“May I come in?”

Albeit reluctantly, Vera steps aside. She rubs her taut neck where the red pinprick has since faded. This time, the Devil follows. Her shadow drags across the yellow wallpaper. The door shuts behind them.

With a swallow, the remnants of Pinot Grigio sail down her throat. Now, it tastes like shards of glass. She fetches a chalice for the Governor and sets it on the counter. Joan does the honors and uncorks the bottle.

_Pop._

Their glasses are filled to the brim. For the strike, she lets down her hair. Pulls out the four bobby-pins to line them on the smooth, flat surface. The rubber-band rests around her wrist. Palpable tension swims between them.

It shouldn't be this way, but all good things get mucked up anyhow.

“To our... perfectly working relationship,” Joan declares with a ceremonious toast.

“To the truth,” the lamb snips back.

_Clink._

They sip in unison.

“I'm sorry,” Vera begins with her weak, miserable excuses.

This time, Joan stops her. A hand settles on her subordinate's shoulder. Then, the blade. There, she squeezes. Heat radiates from the touch. Maybe she's not so cold after all.

“Hush, Vera. Let's enjoy one another's company, mm?”

And so, they down a bottle. It's communion, it's ruin.

By the end, Joan finds that she doesn't quite _want_ to leave.

**Author's Note:**

> And this marks my 69th fic in the Wentworth category. Ha.


End file.
